


Ribbons

by ghostofgatsby



Series: Stitch by Stitch [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Tailor, BDSM, Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Nudity, Ribbon Bondage, Ribbons, Sewing, Subspace, Suits, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: The ribbon is butter-soft to the touch. Smith rubs his thumb over the smooth pink satin and shivers. He immediately thinks of Trott, and the things they do on the nights Trott doesn’t work. He wonders what it would be like to have the ribbon looped around him, caressed across his skin, pulled just tight enough to keep him still.Smith pulls his hand back and swallows thickly, glancing around the shop as if someone could read his inappropriate thoughts.There’s no one near him. And mind-reading doesn’t exist. Idiot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because I wanted Trott to tie Smith up with ribbon
> 
> aesthetics: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/03/tailor-au-aesthetics
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/03/ribbons-ghostofgatsby/
> 
> cw: class differences. bondage. mention of taking pictures.  
> also, usage of pink ribbon, but no feminization or anything like that. the ribbon just happens to be pink.  
> if I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> ribbon bondage references (nsfw):  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/29/29/86/29298683041c3d041c7af8ecf7c1cfa7.jpg  
> http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000FaS6sD6.rEI/s/750/750/jjon-00006.jpg  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s96vJ1YS3fM  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BGtH2iui6rL/

Smith strolls along the aisle in the thrift shop, perusing the assortment of mismatched cookware and dated cookbooks from the seventies. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for- only that he has a half hour to kill before Trott gets done with work, and it’s too cold outside to busk for money today. He dropped his last guitar pick down a sewer drain, anyway, and he doesn’t want to make his fingers bleed. Smith doesn’t think the thrift store will have guitar picks, but it doesn’t hurt to look. Even if his wallet is looking pretty desolate at the moment...

He skips over the linens section and gives a cursory glance at the accessories. Maybe he should find himself a thicker sweater, or a new pair of gloves. Smith rubs his fingers together in his coat pocket, feeling the cracked leather exterior through the hole in the thumb. It’s a small hole- the size of a pea- but he should take Trott’s advice and get a better pair. Eventually.

Smith scratches idly at his beard, and tugs the hem of his beanie further over his ears. There’s a radio playing at the front desk, and the arrangement of shelves and merchandise makes the sound loud even from far away. The carpet is thin, and the floor underneath his feet creaks as he treads across it in slush-wet boots. The bell over the door of the thrift shop dings behind him. He braces for the blast of cold winter air to rush through, and shudders when it hits his back. Despite three layers of clothes, he can never seem to keep the chill out. Smith sighs to himself and keeps browsing.

Just as Smith is about to give up and go find a coffee shop to hole up in for some better warmth, he spots a big box of craft supplies. Sticking out of the top of an extremely stuffed cardboard box is a flat plastic spool of pink ribbon.

Smith walks over to it, wincing at the creaking and popping of the floorboards, and pulls off his leather gloves.

The ribbon is butter-soft to the touch. Smith rubs his thumb over the smooth pink satin and shivers. He immediately thinks of Trott, and the things they do on the nights Trott doesn’t work. He wonders what it would be like to have the ribbon looped around him, caressed across his skin, pulled just tight enough to keep him still.

Smith pulls his hand back and swallows thickly, glancing around the shop as if someone could read his inappropriate thoughts.

There’s no one near him. And mind-reading doesn’t exist. Idiot.

Smith looks back at the ribbon again. The plastic spool sits innocuously in the box, peeking out among fake flowers and used watercolor paint sets.

Well, at least see how much it is, Smith tells himself, you only have a few dollars to spare, so that’ll make the decision for you.

He lifts the spool up out of the box. “⅝-inch baby pink 100% polyester satin ribbon, 50 yds (150 ft),” the label reads. The orange thrift-store sticker next to it: $1.00.

What a fucking _bargain_.

 

It’s a short walk from the thrift shop to Trott’s little tailors’ boutique, where he custom-fits suits and dresses for customers. Before they met, Smith had always walked past the shop and looked in the windows, knowing it'd be a long time that he'd ever have the budget for something nice. The spool of ribbon is tucked inside Smith’s coat, between his armpit and the sleeve, and with the frigid wind blowing down the back of his neck as he walks, he wishes he bought a scarf instead.

Smith tells himself it’ll be worth it. Maybe. Trott could use it, right? If not...well, he’s a tailor. He’d probably find some use out of it, even if it wouldn’t be what Smith had in mind. Ribbon isn’t exactly...stretchy, or easy to untie.

Trott’s shop is blissfully warm when Smith pushes through the door. He stomps off the slush on the soggy rug at the front and meanders through the racks of suits and business attire to the fitting rooms at the back. Ross stands on the little dias to the side of the changing booths, and Trott kneels at his feet, head bent downwards.

“Oh, am I interrupting something?” Smith teases. He tries to cross his arms over his chest, and the spool of ribbon pinches against him underneath his coat. He straightens out and settles for nonchalantly leaning against the molding in the doorway.

Trott sighs exasperatedly, sparing Smith a small glance as he slides a pin through the fabric in Ross’ suit pants. “Smith, I’ve told you before to wait in the office while I have customers,” he says, removing confetti-colored sewing pins from between his lips. His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, and a measuring tape is looped down one arm.

“It’s just Ross.” Who looks painfully good in suit pants and a stupid Star Wars t-shirt, his hair gelled up and his smile bright.

Trott gives Smith a look.

Ross snorts. “I don’t mind, Trott. Smith could probably hear us talking when he came in, anyway.”

“It’s not like Ross _changes_ in front of us, Trott, jeeze.”

“Yeah, like you two would mind seeing that, you filthy fucks,” Ross teases with laugh.

“Don’t make me poke you,” Trott warns, tugging the ankle of Ross’ pants to straighten the fabric out, “I may only have sewing pins, but I know how to use them.”

Ross smiles wryly, but smartly, says nothing.

Smith shudders at the idea. “This is why I don’t let you fix my clothes, you fucking sadist. Keep your pins away from my dick!”

“I don’t fix your clothes because you’re broke and you won’t let me do it for free!” Trott snaps in reply.

Smith frowns, looking away from Trott and Ross and pointedly _not_ at his own threadbare attire. “Yeah, fuck you. Whatever,” he grumbles. He’s not some charity case Trott needs to fix up- he’s _not_.

Trott sighs and shakes his head. He adds the last of the pins and brushes a bit of lint off of Ross’ hip. “Alright, turn around slowly, Ross. I think that’s the last of the pinning I need to do…”

Ross is one of Trott's very expensive customers who buys his fancy suits and works big business. He and Trott are friends, and he's treated him and Smith out to nice sushi restaurants every once in awhile. Smith doesn’t mind the guy being around, because he sure does look attractive in all of Trott’s suits, but talk about out of his league...

After Trott finishes up with Ross and they bid him on his way, Smith follows Trott around the shop. He watches him lock the front door and turn on the security system before tidying up the fitting room. They turn off the lights and exit the back of the shop through the storage room door.

“Chinese food tonight? Or pizza?” Smith asks as they climb up a set of metal stairs to the little apartment above the shop that Trott lives in.

“Why, you buying?” Trott asks, snippity.

“Er…” The guilt for always feeling like he’s mooching off Trott’s hospitality cuts through his words immediately. Their shoes clang on the metal steps, the singular noise breaking the silence.

Trott sighs and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “Sorry, I’m- I’ve been an arse tonight, haven’t I? It’s been a long day.”

“It’s alright…” It’s not like it’s a new thing. It’s not like he’s going to get a rush of money anytime soon. It’s not like he doesn’t do anything other than sing and play guitar on street corners.

“No, it’s not.” Trott shakes his head. Smith watches him unlock his door and follows him inside. “Pizza, then? That sounds good to me. I’ll call.”

Smith nods, finally unzipping his jacket and removing the spool of ribbon from it’s uncomfortable spot as Trott turns away. “Pizza’s fine...thanks, Trott.”

“Mhm.”

He really does mean the thanks. He hopes Trott knows that. If they hadn’t met at an open mic one night at a local pub, hit it off, and became friends, Smith would probably be a lot worse off. Homeless, probably. Maybe even missing a finger or two from frostbite- the ultimate hobo. Who knows.

While Trott orders the pizza and searches through the fridge for some drinks, Smith crosses the little flat and turns on the lamps and the strand of lights in their window. Or, it’s technically  _Trott’s_ window, but Smith crashes here more often than not, after his old friend he used to couchsurf with took to loudly banging his girlfriend twenty-four-seven. It wasn’t exactly a peaceful, restful environment.

But, Smith had the lights left over from a few holidays ago, and didn’t sell them to try to salvage his bills, so he hung them up here. It brightened Trott’s dreary-looking flat considerably. And it was nice, to sit together side by side with a cup of tea, looking out the lit window and watching it snow.

Trott kicks his shoes off and settles down on the couch, rolling up his shirt sleeves. “Whatcha got there?” he asks.

“I bought this for you,” Smith says, reluctantly handing over the plastic spool.

Trott adjusts his glasses on his nose and turns the spool in his hands. “Pink ribbon?”

Smith shrugs. “I saw it, and...I dunno, I thought you could use it.”

“It _is_ a pretty color. Soft. What did you think I would use it for, sunshine?” Trott looks up and raises an eyebrow.

Smith slowly sits down next to him. “Well. For us? I was thinking maybe you could tie me up with it.”

Trott hums skeptically, but the corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile. “Alright, we’ll give it a shot. I’ll think something up.”

 

Smith returns from busking in the shopping mall a few days later, lugging his beaten up guitar case up the stairs and into Trott’s apartment. “Trott, I’m back,” he calls out.

“Hey. Have a good set?” Trott asks from the couch. The tv is playing on low. Discovery channel- Moonshiners by the looks of it.

“Decent, I guess.” Smith locks up and leans his guitar case beside the door. “What’ve you been up to, Trotty?”

Trott gestures to the tablet in his lap. “Just sketching some new designs.”

Smith hums. He walks closer to look over Trott’s shoulder. “Looks nice. Broad lapel.” He points to the collar of the double-breasted style blazer.

“Yeah. Thought I’d bring some older style into it. Wide lapels were common in the seventies, and double breasted suit jacket in the eighties...” Trott clears his throat.

Smith smiles. Trott is always a little shy about showing his personal designs and talking fashion. Most of the time he uses pre-made, pre-sold patterns for his suits.

“Also…” Trott pulls up something else on his tablet and turns it to show him. “There’s this.”

Smith takes in a breath.

It’s a monochrome picture of a naked man sitting, turned away from the camera, head bowed, with his arms bound in red ribbon behind his back.

“Oh…”

“Do you like it? Do you want to try it?” Trott asks.

“ _Yeah_.” Smith stands up straight and tugs at his sweater self-consciously. “Can we...can we do that tonight?”

“If you’re up for it.” Trott smiles.

Smith smiles back. “Okay. I’ll get cleaned up.”

 

He finds Trott in the bedroom when he’s done with his shower. The ribbon, already removed from its spool, and a pair of safety scissors are already laid out on the bed. Trott’s even lit a few candles on the dresser, bathing the two of them and the room in a soft amber glow.

“Safeword?” Trott asks, smoothing out the blanket at the foot of the bed.

“Folsom.”

Trott nods. “Good.” He tugs lightly at the towel wrapped around Smith’s waist. “You can take this off.”

Smith drops the towel to the floor and kicks it behind him, smirking smugly.

Trott rolls his eyes, completely unfazed by Smith’s casual nudity. “That damp towel won’t dry in a pile like that. I should make you hang it up.”

“Could do.” Smith grins. “Where do you want me?”

“On the bed. Sit facing the headboard, arms behind your back.”

Smith clambers up unselfconsciously and gets comfortable. The room is pleasantly warm and the sheets smell freshly laundered. He wants to bury his face in them and curl up with Trott spooned up beside him, but that’ll come later.

Trott climbs up and sits across from him. Smith rolls his shoulders back, moving his arms behind him and clasping his hands together. He watches as Trott measures out a small length of ribbon and cuts it from the spool. He trims the edges into points and then sets the scissors aside.

“Chin up.” Trott cups Smith’s cheek, lifting his head, and Smith straightens his posture.

He leans into Trott’s hand the slightest bit as Trott briefly cards his fingers through Smith’s damp hair.

“Maybe I should get you a posture collar,” Trott says quietly, picking up the short length of ribbon beside him, “But for tonight, this will do.”

Smith says nothing. He stops his mind from spinning away with the thought, because he’d never ask Trott to buy him such an expensive, nice, but ultimately unnecessary, gift. He holds still as Trott gently slides the ribbon around his neck and ties a bow at the hollow of his throat. The ends hang down, the points skimming the top of Smith’s collarbones, and the ticklish feeling makes him shiver.

Trott caresses his cheek, smoothing his thumb across rough stubble. Smith turns his head the slightest to kiss the inside of his wrist.

“Hold still; no squirming,” Trott reminds him gently, and removes his hand to pick up the remaining ribbon.

The ribbon is soft and smooth as Trott guides it around Smith’s torso and over his shoulders, weaving patterns across his chest. The pink contrasts the light tan of his skin and the reddish freckles and hair.

Smith feels completely relaxed, and at ease. Every bitter feeling about his life is wiped away, his mind a blank, clean slate. Only Trott matters, and the ministrations of Trott’s warm hands caressing his skin and guiding ribbon across it.

Smith wonders if his skin is flushed pink to match the ribbon, color high in his cheeks and the flesh of his thighs and chest. His eyes fluttered shut before he realized they were closing. But he doesn’t mind not watching Trott do his thing this time.

Time passes as Smith feels Trott shift on the bed, moving behind him and beside him, tying Smith’s arms together behind his back.

It’s peaceful, like this. Calm. Safe. Right now, there’s no other place Smith would rather be. Except maybe in Trott’s arms or lap, too.

“There we go...beautiful.” Smith hears Trott say in a hushed voice. He must be finished with his work. Fingertips trace across the ribbon crisscrossing Smith’s chest. A hand cups Smith’s cheek.

“You look lovely, sunshine. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Smith slowly licks his lips, feeling the healed-over crack in his bottom lip from the dryness in the wintry air. He doesn’t want to open his eyes- he’s too content. His limbs feel weighty and secure, the ribbon with just enough give and hold that he can feel its pull on every inhale. It’s dark behind his eyelids, but Trott has asked so nicely.

Smith opens his eyes, blinking back at Trott in the dim glow of the bedroom.

“Color?”

“Green,” Smith murmurs. His eyes flutter shut again when Trott cards his fingers through his hair. He gives up on keeping them open and sways towards Trott, leaning into him and dropping his head to Trott’s shoulder.

“Easy...easy. You feeling alright, sunshine?” There’s a tinge of worry in Trott’s voice.

Smith forces words out of his mouth, trying not to stumble over his tongue. “Yeah. It’s just...feels nice. ‘m good.”

“Alright. Let me know if something changes.” He takes Smith’s hand with the one that isn’t carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Can you squeeze my fingers for me?”

Smith does. Trott squeezes back.

“Good. No numbness or tingling?”

“No. Can I just...can we just sit like this? For a little while?” Smith murmurs, leaning into Trott’s arms. It’s perfect. Just like this.

He didn’t think he said that last part aloud, but he must have, because Trott chuckles.

“Sure thing, Smith. Just like this.”

Smith melts into Trott’s touch. Trott’s hand rests on the back of Smith’s neck, his fingers petting the ribbon still tied around it. Trott kisses Smith’s temple, and Smith lets out a long, happy sigh.

 

In bed the next morning, Smith can’t stop looking at the pictures Trott took before he untied him from all that pink ribbon. The imprinted fabric marks had faded overnight, but Smith still has that leftover, shivery feeling he gets after a scene. He flips back and forth through the folder on Trott’s tablet, tracing over the photos with his eyes, pleased with how he looks in the pink silk and the candlelight.

The smell of maple syrup wafts from the kitchen, and Smith can hear Trott banging around making pancakes. The sheets are warm with him, still.

Smith pulls the blanket closer and nuzzles his face into the pillow, grinning. They had spent the rest of last night and most of this morning curled up together. He hesitates now, to say how good it was, but he feels the same about it as he did last night. Calm. Safe. Secure. Cared for.

It’s sappy, but it’s true.

Tomorrow, he’ll go back to the normalcy of being a poorly-paid street musician. Right now, all he needs to worry about is persuading Trott to bring him breakfast, without getting up out of bed...


End file.
